The Sun Sets Twice Again
by sinistrae-ex-aetas
Summary: When a line is drawn between what you know and what is true, how do you decide what to believe? As his fifth year at Hogwarts begins Harry faces a set of problems both old and new, but none so persistent as how is good, and evil, defined. And how does a p
1. Cognizant

The Sun Sets Twice Again  
  
At some point, though he wasn't sure when, Harry had decided that Number 4 Privet Drive was his own personal hell. The turning point might have been the letter from Sirius, his godfather. Sirius, who agreed that he should stay with the Dursley's all summer and not go the Burrow. Sirius, who said it was for his own safety. Because the Dursley's could **so* protect him against wizards and witches. Hell, wizards and witches couldn't even protect him from the Death Eaters. The only high point of the summer had been the fact that no one had managed to break down whatever protection Number 4 Privet Drive had around it. Of course, that wouldn't be a high point if he went mad from being cooped up with all three Dursleys for two and a half months.  
  
He had forgotten what it was like: this lack of hope. Well, he supposed he didn't completely lack hope; some part of him was looking forward to going back to Hogwarts and classes and Quidditch, especially the freedom he felt when he was flying. More than anything else, though, he missed Hermione and Ron, his two best friends. Of course, the rest of him was feeling guilty for looking forward to anything at all. So, maybe it was better that he was miserable at the Dursleys-- it's not like he deserved anything else. Just thinking this made him angry at himself, which in turn made him angry at others, so then he felt guilty all over again. It was turning into a habit-- a habit that was making him sick of himself. It didn't help that he'd spent the better part of the summer being voluntarily locked in his room.  
  
That was why he was currently laying on his bed (which, even though he was small for his age, didn't really fit him) staring blankly at the ceiling, disliking the universe in general. It's not like he asked to be the Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived. Still, it wasn't as if he was going to off himself, or do anything that could be considered suicidal like ask Ron to come get him. That would put Ron at risk anyway and he wasn't willing to do that. So, instead, he had spent a lot of time thinking and, when he wasn't thinking, working. It had to be the first time he had ever finished his homework before his birthday. Since he was being more agreeable than ever, the Dursley's hadn't locked his books and supplies away-- though in return they seemed to be feeding him less. He didn't actually mind this, as he'd been having trouble stomaching anything for awhile anyway.  
  
He'd sent Hedwig to Flourish and Blotts for books a few times over the summer, most of them dealing with defense against the dark arts; of course, Hermione had sent him a book on his birthday, but he was running out of material. Harry thought that he'd studied more in the last few months than the rest of his Hogwarts' time combined even if he couldn't really practice. He'd be reading now if he wasn't so tired that the words kept blurring together. Not that he could sleep anyway; when he slept he dreamed, and when he dreamt it was a nightmare- a nightmare or a memory, sometimes both, sometimes reality mixed with his worse fears. Sometimes, he ordered Cedric's death-- those were the worst. It was getting to the point where he didn't want to sleep, where he refused to sleep and had learned instead to blank out-- to fall into a state that wasn't quite sleep at all. A state where he didn't have to dream and he didn't have to think and he barely had to breathe.  
  
He was fairly certain it was Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome (he'd gotten his hands on some Muggle psychology books when he was still trying to stop the dreams), but the only cure for that was to deal with the incident that triggered it. Except Cedric was dead while Voldemort wasn't, and there was nothing more to sort out as far as Harry was concerned. He wasn't strong enough or studied enough to manage the sort of time spell that'd be required to fix anything and, he felt, given the circumstances, Dumbledore would just tell him that he couldn't change what had been done-- only change what will be. What Harry did know was that the next chance he got, he was going to fix everything he could-- even if it killed him, and even if he had to kill someone else. He wasn't letting things get that out of control again. He couldn't. He wouldn't survive.  
  
As he lay in bed his muscles began to cramp from the constant pressure of being still, but he didn't mind. At some point the incessant gnawing hungry had ceased, leaving an empty feeling that almost had him worried his body had gone as numb as his mind. It was nice to feel something. He supposed it was also a good sign that he was worried in the first place. Circular thought. A to B to A again. The familiarity was nearly comforting, but he didn't want comfort. He shifted as the muscles of his lower back, what few he had left over from the last time he played Quidditch, began to throb, protesting of his lack of motion. He was starting to wonder-- in circles, of course-- if maybe he was going insane, but each time he dismissed the possibility, because if he was would he really be wondering such a thing at all? He didn't think so, and therefore was more or less sure that he was of sound mind and body, or at least not completely barkers. Only marginally out of his mind. He laughed to himself, though it sounded cynical in his head, and he found the thought not at all reassuring  
  
Harry turned his head, craning it upwards and over to glance at the clock on the bedside table. 4:17. In two more hours it'd be dawn and he'd go on pretending that he was awake because it was light out and not because he didn't want to have to relive that night two months ago. Maybe only an hour and a half 'til daylight. At least he knew it wasn't his imagination that the nights were getting longer, though it might not be better that they were. He sighed and went back to staring at the ceiling, but soon he was too tired to even do something so simple as that, and against his will he felt himself falling asleep.  
  
* * *  
  
The spell itself wasn't that hard, if you knew what you were doing. The potion was rather complicated and the charm difficult, but neither were impossible to do. It wasn't a well-known spell, despite it's power, and he'd run across it quite by accident in a very old text while he was recuperating. A spell to restore oneself, were it from illness or a curse. He felt that his own rebounded curse fell well enough into that category, no doubt. However, it was contingent on strength, on the inherent power of the caster, and, most importantly, on will. Many wizards wouldn't be able to cast such a spell, which was probably why it wasn't well-known, no matter how useful it was.  
  
Refici Ego Ipse. It was brilliant in its simplicity. I Restore Myself. Exactly what he intended to do. Restore himself to the glory he had once been, to the self that had caused fear and pain and chaos the world over; the self that had proved he, of all people, was not weak in any way. At least until a babe, a little bright eyed child, had somehow ruined it all. Oh well; he'd kill that child, now a young man, easily enough once he was strong again. He realized the mistake that had been made in the graveyard, a grievous miscommunication. Those responsible had been dealt with accordingly for not telling him that the boy had a brother wand and therefore, obviously, could not be fought with his own wand in hand. That just meant he'd have to kill Harry Potter the old fashioned way. No difficulty there. Next time they met each other he'd know better and the boy would die.  
  
Until then he had the spell to keep him occupied. Once it was finished he could concern himself with details like Harry Potter's impending doom and the defeat of Albus Dumbledore. He'd been planning the latter for a long time and had almost done it before the.unfortunate. incident at Godric's Hollow. The old fool had never realized exactly how close to death he had come, and would once again be coming to soon. He'd complete that task yet, but that was after, and right now was before.  
  
He heard a shuffle at the door, followed by a knock.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"My-my Lord. The potion is r-ready. It's ti-time," Pettigrew called.  
  
He'd have to get rid of that stuttering idiot after this.  
  
"Alright. I'll be out soon," he replied.  
  
"Y-yes, Lord." The servant shuffled away.  
  
Yes, he would get his victory, and better yet, his revenge. He rose, still sore from regaining his body after twelve long years, and walked towards the door, unlocking it with a flick of his wand and entering the hall. The ceremony would be held in the main parlor, and for the purposes of secrecy and concentration, unlike in the graveyard two months ago, the only ones in attendance would be himself, Pettigrew, and one Lucius Malfoy. Both were good, intelligent wizards, and far too cowardly to even consider double-crossing him.  
  
The parlor was circular, and adorned in silver, green, and black: his favourite colours, the colours of his mark. In a way it reminded him of the Slytherin dorms from so long ago. In the center of the room a high-set altar was atop a black cloth, the table top containing a dagger, a cauldron with the still bubbling potion, and the charm that would be needed to complete the spell. On either side of the altar, not quite on the cloth, were Malfoy and Pettigrew. The top of the table came nearly even with their heads, enabling him to reach the ingredients without bending over himself. Good.  
  
He stood over the altar and picked up the charm in one scaled hand, placing it in his palm, and with the other hand he took the knife. Shifting the charm to rest on his fingers, he carefully made shallow cuts, carving a symbol identical to the one on the green colored stone. After pulling away the dagger and placing it back on the altar top he closed his hand into a fist, covering the charm in his own blood. A moment later he moved his hand over the cauldron and let the stone drop in. The potion went from a pleasant sort of red, to blood red, and then black in a few seconds. Black, the color of magic. It was ready.  
  
Soon.soon he'd be restored; restored to his health, to his power, to his self. He'd once again be unstoppable and undefeatable. He'd be the man he was at the height of his reign, the man that inspired such fear-- no longer a shadow of his former self. Restore himself indeed. He watched the potion calm in a detached sort of amusement, but as he poured some, exactly four ounces, into a cup, the feeling turned to cold victory. Smiling to himself, though he imagined it looked more like a sneer to the two men on their knees, he thought briefly, 'here's to my health,' before swallowing the potion in one single gulp. It burned in a good way, making him laugh out loud for the first time in. years. It felt like when he was young again. When he took pleasure in smaller things. In things other than pain. This was the first sign that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.  
  
* * *  
  
Pain. Not the sort of pain brought on by the Crucatius Curse, that was worse, but for a moment he wondered if maybe that was what was happening. Then he remembered that he was alone in his room at the Dursleys where no one could get in and that it had all been a dream. His head throbbed and he felt nauseous, both from the pain still radiating from his scar-- hurting from the inside out-- and from the images he had seen. Voldemort. Voldemort as Tom Riddle. Why had Voldemort thought that charm to be a good idea? He'd been going on about time, about giving himself time. Like he wanted to restore his strength and make him "himself" again. Had he meant to make himself fifteen again? No one would actually be crazy enough to do that, would they? Well, if anyone was... Harry forced his eyes open a little, though he felt like he was seeing stars, and found the glowing red numbers of the clock. 6:06.  
  
Two hours. He wondered if he was wrong in thinking that this was the longest he had slept in a single night in over a week. He couldn't recall. Though he did vaguely remember that, some days back, he'd passed out into a great oblivious darkness, where he was so far under that no dreams could reach him because he was dead to the world, all before he woke up (or regained consciousness-- he wasn't sure which) twenty house later to the insistent pounding of his Uncle's massive hand against the door. Vernon seemed worried that if Harry died under his care 'those- those-people!' would put a curse on the Dursleys and had therefore been rather upset, leading to Harry muttering, 'Like you wouldn't bloody celebrate on my grave' at dinner. This, of course, had prompted Vernon to drag him up to his room and lock him in again, whilst going on a tirade about what an ungrateful little troublemaker Harry was. Since then, aside from someone occasionally slipping food to him, he had been left blissfully alone-- or if not blissfully, than contentedly.  
  
He sighed, shaking himself out of his tangent. He'd had a dream with Voldemort. Not just a dream-- he was used to those after all-- but one of the visions. The visions that caused his scar to burn like the branding that it was. If nothing else his summer had been free of such distress, until now. He should write and tell Dumbledore and Sirius. It was what Harry Potter would do; it was what he should do. He sighed, shaking off the last vestige of pain, and got out of bed, going over to the desk in search of parchments and a quill. He found them in the drawer where he knew they were and sat down at the desk, writing out both letters quickly, trying to recall every detail that he could before signing them each and tying them to Hedwig's leg. At least this year his Uncle hadn't locked Hedwig in her cage, which meant he could send off the letters without having to go through Hermione the Muggle way. As he sent Hedwig on her way the first light of day dawned on the horizon, officially beginning August 14th, 1995. 


	2. Past

August 15th, 1995. 3 p.m.  
  
Albus Dumbledore looked down at the parchment in his hand, rereading it for the fourth time, Harry's owl Hedwig watching him expectantly. He smiled, fishing a couple of owl treats out of a dish on his desk and put his hand out for her to eat them. Then he turned back to the letter in concern. The Refici Ego Ipse spell was something he had only heard of and even then it was considered legend. A literal fountain of youth or.the reversal of time altogether. It was possible that this new Tom Riddle didn't remember anything past the fifteen years seen by his body. Possible indeed, and if that were true. No, he couldn't let his hopes up, it was also possible he remembered everything. Nothing was certain for now. Once it was decisions could, and would have to, be made. Until then, however, he would have to wait. Luckily, he was a patient man.  
  
What he didn't know, however, was that time was on his side, for as he considered how to phrase his reply to Harry a lone boy was approaching the front gate of Hogwarts. The boy had jet-black hair and was wearing fairly standard wizard robes, looking not a bit different than the hundreds of other Hogwarts students who would be approaching the very same gates in a fortnight. Aside from the rather obvious fact that he was two weeks too early. That didn't matter, because this wasn't a Hogwarts student; no this particular boy hadn't attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for over fifty years. Not that he knew that.  
  
Headmaster Dumbledore was, of course, alerted by the wards surrounding the school the second said boy passed the front gate. Furrowing his brow, he muttered a revealing spell on the small, circular object sitting on his desk. Seeing who it was, the twinkle is his very blue eyes strengthened and a small smile crossed his lips. He recognized the boy, would never forget him even if he lived, as his friend Nicholas Flamel had, well into his 600s or beyond, and he knew that this boy wasn't supposed to be here, now, but he was and that could mean great things. Perhaps this time they wouldn't be terrible as well. As for the boy, his name was Tom Marvolo Riddle, he was fifteen as of last March, and he remembered Hogwarts as if he had last seen it as recently as two months previous, which, in his mind, he had.  
  
* * * Tom viewed the familiar grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with wary curiosity. It certainly looked as he remembered it, but that meant little. After all, it had only been fifty-years, a mere fraction of the time since Hogwarts was founded, if indeed he wasn't in 1941. He was more concerned with the fact that it felt, though he disliked the inexactness of that term, different to him. This might be attributed to the nearly two days prior to his arriving here, which had been odd, though that was a understatement.  
  
* * *  
  
Pain. Everywhere, anywhere, worse than anything he could remember, including the time he'd been 'accidentally' thrown down the stairs and end up in the hospital for a week when he was eight. This was more internal than that, as if he was injured from the inside out. That, he thought, wasn't possible, not even for a wizard. His stomach was bubbling, as if it were an insect trying to crawl its way out through his throat. The image wasn't comforting. His head throbbed in rate with double heartbeats, as he gasped for air. It was hard to breathe now, like he was dying, certainly painful enough to be dying. One thought, above all the others running around like headless chickens, was clear though. I don't want to die. Then suddenly, the pain stopped, his body still wracked in tremors from the strain.  
  
He laid there, outside of time, for minutes? Hours? Days? He laid there, remembering the pain and the thoughts and something that felt foreign even though it was as natural to him, nearly, as breathing. His name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was Tom Riddle. Not.not.he didn't know. Not something. He hated not knowing, but who could he ask? No one at the orphanage that he was currently abandoned to would speak to him. Which, in comparison to the treatment he'd received before he was eleven, was actually a vast improvement. Still, something was wrong, even they would have said something after what.whatever had happened that caused the pain. Even if it was just to tell him to shut up. Maybe he had managed not to scream.  
  
That was when he realized he didn't hear breathing aside from his own. He could count on his fingers the number of times that had occurred and none of those were at the orphanage. He opened his eyes, like slits, hoping to filter as much light as possible. Except it was dark. It was never really dark in the orphanage, some one always has some sort of light on or the hall light would come through the half-opened door. Something. He hated that about it, he liked the darkness, felt more at home in it. At least at Hogwarts he could crawl off to some half-hidden cubby hole at night, curling up in the comfort of the concealment. Though he'd been doing that far less frequently ever since accidentally running across one of those monsters that Reubus Hagrid called a pet. If Hagrid wasn't mostly harmless and capable of physically snapping him in half he would have put an end to all that two years ago.  
  
Still, the questioned remained as to where he was, since he was suppose to be in the orphanage. Talking the risk of opening his eyes fully and looking around, he was confused to see that he didn't recognize his location at all. It was a bedroom certainly, and he was on a bed, but as to who's bedroom or what house he didn't have the faintest idea. It was upsetting. The bedroom, aside from being decorated entirely in black, looked benign enough, from what he could see. Of course, between the darkness and the shadow-like quality of his surroundings, he really couldn't see much at all. He needed to find a lamp, he supposed.  
  
Ignoring the protest of his still tense limbs he forced himself into a sitting position and then, muscles aching, up onto his feet. The dizziness was palpable, but he pushed it away, ignoring the vaguely frantic warning his body was attempting to give. His body was wrong more often than not; it underestimated him, much like everything else around him. He was stronger than they gave him credit for. He shrugged away the thoughts and focused on the task at hand: finding a light, or a door. He reached over carefully, searching for a solid shape next to the bed. His hand hit wood and he smiled, feeling for the lamp. There is was. He turned the knob and was suddenly cast into a bright, yellow-white light. His eyes shut and he slammed his hands over them, trying to block out the slightest bit of light..  
  
"Argh. Bloody 'ell!" The exclamation came somewhere between a whisper and a shout.  
  
If his head hadn't hurt before, it did now, and he winced. He always had sensitive eyes and now he was seeing splattered blots of light. Suddenly he heard footsteps outside where he had guessed the door to be. Well, at least now he'd be getting answers one way or another.  
  
"Ma-Master?" The voice called tentatively.  
  
Master? Tom laughed. He was no one's master. He didn't even have house elves.  
  
"Who is it?"  
  
"It's Pe-peter Pettrigrew, sir."  
  
The name meant nothing to him, but he thought it better he didn't reveal that for now, in case he was suppose to recognize it. He opened his eyes cautiously. The light didn't seem so bright anymore and he smiled weakly. One step at a time.  
  
"Well, come in." His tone was harsher than he meant it to be, but he didn't apologize.  
  
The door creaked open and a short, balding, chubby man, who had maybe once had blond hair, entered as if he were afraid he was going to be killed on the spot. Tom didn't think he knew the man, though he seemed almost, just almost, familiar. He wondered how long these nagging suspicious were going to coil in the back of his mind before striking with clarity or disappearing completely.  
  
"My Lord." The man bowed, an ungraceful movement.  
  
Tom frowned. My Lord, Lord? He wasn't a lord at all, though the man seemed to think he was. Was it a joke? No, no one would go to such lengths, not even that horrid Malfoy bloke.  
  
"Your Lord." He sneered. "Lord of what?" The tone was sarcastic and a bit amused as Tom fought to squelch any bit of curiosity he was experiencing from filtering in.  
  
"Lord of Dar-darkness, sir. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."  
  
"My own servant, afraid to name me." The laugh came out dangerous.  
  
"Lord Vol-voldemort, Bringer of Darkness."  
  
Oh hell. No one knew that name. No one. Something was very, very wrong. Tom took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. What was going on? His face went cold and blank as he considered how to phrase the next question, to ask what had happened, without revealing that he, himself, did not know. He needn't have worried however.  
  
"Lord. The spell.it, we're not certain what went wrong. It seems to have misinterpreted what you meant for it to do. You, you look, to us, to be fifteen. We're not certain why. We're working on reversing it, Master, do not worry. You will be returned, we will not fail."  
  
He looked fifteen. The man, Pettrigrew, said he looked fifteen. Which meant he was unaware of how badly the spell, what ever one had been performed, had gone wrong. Tom was certain it was badly, because he couldn't think of a single reason why someone would want to reverse themselves to the age and memory of a fifteen year old. He needed to find out what spell Pettrigrew was speaking of.  
  
"And, what, exactly, are you doing to reverse it?"  
  
"The Aedifico Ego Ipse spell, as per your orders, s-sir."  
  
Aedifico Ego Ipse, I Create Myself. Bugger all! Tom quite abruptly knew exactly what had gone wrong, and that it was meant as right. He needed to talk to.to anyone.to someone who would know. Christ. Tom grimaced, a bitter taste sliding its way up his throat, he knew who he needed to talk to. For if anything was predictable in his life, it was this: Albus Dumbledore would know what was happening, and he, Tom Riddle, wouldn't like it.  
  
* * * So here he was, on the grounds of Hogwarts, searching out a man whom he was told still resided within these halls. A man who certainly hadn't been fond of him fifty-years ago and, if what that simpering idiot Pettrigrew told him was true, would most likely wish him dead now. Funny, he didn't remember having a masochistic streak before. He looked around, noticing the tale-tell signs of protective wards and fully aware he was probably missing most of them. Well, he was here already either way, so now was not the time to turn away.  
  
To his lack of surprise no one stopped him on his way in. Surely security was not that lax, which meant that Dumbledore knew he was here or that he was coming. Wonderful. Though he had expected nothing less. Some day he would have to discover how the old man knew these things. Of course, now that he was inside the castle he wasn't at all certain of where to go. Pettrigrew had said that Dumbledore was now the headmaster of Hogwarts, which meant that his office would be behind the gargoyle, but the chances of the gargoyle being in the same location as it had been.Even if it was, unless the professor had continued using names of sweets as his passwords, Tom couldn't get into the office. He didn't fancy wandering around the grounds like a lost first year either. He thought he could just stand there until someone wandered upon him- which, if Dumbledore knew he was here as he seemed to, wouldn't be long- but he disliked that idea.  
  
It didn't matter because moments later Dumbledore appeared from around the corner. Tom smirked; some things never change. Dumbledore had changed however, he noticed. The already old coot was noticeably older and, if possible, carried a serene air more prevalent than even in the time of Tom's attendance.  
  
"Ah, young Mr. Riddle. It's very nice to see you again after all this time. Very nice indeed."  
  
Tom forced himself not to glare at the man and smiled politely. "I wouldn't know."  
  
"That, I suspect, is why you're here. You believe I'll have the explanation to your current plight."  
  
"Yes," he said, his muscles tense. What was it about this man that upset him so?  
  
"Well, then, let's move this conversation to my office. I will explain things, as I understand them to be, once there."  
  
Tom followed Dumbledore through the magically twisted hallways of Hogwarts, amused to find that the headmaster's office was exactly where he remember it to be and Dumbledore's password was 'jumping chocolate frogs'. The office itself looked different. There was more color and trinkets. There was also a phoenix, blazing red and orange, on a perch in the corner, that seemed rather adverse to his presence.  
  
"You want to know what happened?" Dumbledore asked, gesturing for them both to sit. His blue eyes twinkled, looking no worse for age.  
  
"Yes. I've been told I'm in the year 1995. Considering the last thing I was remember was in the summer of 1941, this is rather disconcerting."  
  
The old man nodded, adjusting his spectacles. Then he began to speak, "To explain to you how you've come to be as you are today you need to understand some of what has happened," he stopped, drawing himself up as if gathering energy, and then continued, "You won Tom. You showed the world, in no uncertain terms, that you had power and you were unafraid, and they, for the most part, cowered at your feet. Those who resisted you, also for the most part, died. You became Lord Voldemort and proved that this was a name to revere, to fear. I assume by now you've at least come up with the title, no?" He paused, his eyes darker than Tom ever remembered seeing them, though not violently so. Tom, guessing he was waiting for conformation, nodded. "Yes. You can't even picture what you did, will do, have done, to yourself with that name, let alone the ramifications of your actions. It suffices to say, you became the darkest Dark Lord this world has seen, and then, then, you were defeated, more or less, by a fifteen- month old child. It was this child, now nearly the age you are currently, who informed me of your actions. Simply put, you succeeded at performing a very difficult spell, the Refici Ego Ipse, which I'm certain you've heard of, but you were blinded, as you always were, by your arrogance." He stopped at the look at Tom's face, looking for something it seemed, and whatever he saw made him smile. "You did this to yourself, Tom. Now, the question remains, can you reverse it? And, do you want to?"  
  
The dark haired boy slouched slightly in his chair, considering this. He was defeated by a child, a baby. Badly enough to consider using a spell that was often considered a curse. He had failed against a smaller, weaker opponent, something that was nearly unfathomable to him. How?  
  
"What curse did I fail at?"  
  
"Avada Kedavra."  
  
It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did he laughed. Not the condescending chuckle he often used when no one was paying much attention or the fake laughter of a healthy, normal boy, but a genuine laugh full of humor. Dumbledore's brow furrowed for a second before his expression changed to a smile devoid of humor.  
  
"You always did have apt appreciation of irony."  
  
Tom sobered after a minute. "Does anyone know how? I assume that my reputation was not made on pleasantries; so, why did this boy, of all people, survive?"  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "No. The boy doesn't remember it and all we have are theories lacking substance."  
  
Tom's eyes narrowed but the pleasant look remained on his face and he nodded. The Professor, per normal, was not telling nearly as much as he knew. He probably hadn't even told the boy himself what he knew. Which reminded him.  
  
"You say the boy is the age I am now? Does he attend Hogwarts, then?"  
  
"He does. I'm curious, Tom, you never answered my questions."  
  
He had only one of the answers. He did have the reversal spell, which would be ready in less than forty-eight hours. As for if he wanted to.  
  
"I must have been desperate," he stated quietly, "to take such a risk. It isn't something I'd do now, you know." The reversal spell would be as risky, if not worse so, than the original.  
  
"So, then, you intend on remaining as you are now. With no recollection of the last fifty years."  
  
He could get that information from books. He nodded once, slowly. "If it's feasible, yes. However, would people not recognize me, if indeed I am that infamous."  
  
Dumbledore grimaced, the action didn't fit his face. "The man they know as Lord Voldemort is not a man at all. There is little risk of most people knowing you as him. You made certain of that, as well."  
  
He could see where, and why, that idea had come to pass. Physically, mentally, emotionally, all three keys to recreating oneself. Mentally, that would be easy. Emotionally.  
  
"Have I killed my father?" The words left his mouth before he had a chance to temper them and he winced internally.  
  
"Yes. Your father is dead. His grave is outside the Riddle House."  
  
Tom felt himself give a small, satisfied smile. He hoped the man had suffered, though if he was the killer himself of course his father had, probably horribly. Dumbledore was peering at him in a piercing sort of way and he shook himself out of the more violent images that always accompanied wishing his father dead. No point in lying now, Professor Dumbledore had always seemed to have a sixth sense for lying as well.  
  
"I was speculating on how I did it. I can't imagine it was pretty or quick." Yes, let's convince the one man you could never get to trust you that you are, indeed, completely psychotic. Still, the idea of his father withering in pain.It was a very nice thought.  
  
Dumbledore still hadn't said anything and Tom, rather uncharacteristically, felt the need to fill the silence. "So, I've gotten revenge on my father and the Slytherins as well?"  
  
Ha, the Professor actually showed a bit of surprised, Tom smirked to himself as Headmaster Dumbledore was affected by the question.  
  
"A man named Lucius Malfoy, I can only suppose he's somehow related to the Malfoy I myself go- went- to school with, was bowing at my feet as recently as this morning." Now the smirk bubbled to the surface, covering Tom's handsome features. "That was something I wanted from, well, the train ride my first day of Hogwarts. Not Lucius exactly, much rather my, well now ex-roommate, Augustus Malfoy, still.it was a sight. A fulfillment. A sense of revenge. I seem to have servants, you said as much yourself, and I doubt it's wrong to assume that these are made of predominantly Slytherins. As you said as well, I always did appreciate irony."  
  
"Death-eaters." Dumbledore's eyes were darker than his voice, though that was not without malice.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"They are called Death-eaters."  
  
Tom frowned. He could explain the change in appearance and his choice in servants, but Death-Eaters? The phrase was entirely foreign to him. Not even an inkling of a thought. Worse, he didn't know why he'd chosen that particular term. He sighed, this time audibly, and stared back at the Headmaster.  
  
"Do you know why I chose that term?"  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "It's possible you didn't. It never felt like your style." The old man's blue eyes sparkled, leaving an unsaid 'not as pretentious as expected'.  
  
He supposed he could ask Pettrigrew when he went back. If he went back.  
  
"So, where, Professor, does this leave us?"  
  
"Actually, now that I've spoken with you, I was hoping that we could come to an agreement as to your immediate future."  
  
The Headmaster sounded positively excited, expectant, as if foreseeing something great from what amounted to an accident. This naturally made Tom wary; still, he didn't favor returning to that cottage by the sea in isolation.  
  
"I assume you have a plan then?"  
  
Now Dumbledore's smile did look genuine.  
  
"No one could accuse you of not seeing the best in a situation."  
  
Or the worst, Tom added mentally. He nodded his acquiescence, prompting the older man to continue.  
  
"Yes, Tom, I do have an idea. First, however, I must be certain that you are no threat, either to myself or to others."  
  
I'm fifteen, how much of a threat can I be? Tom clenched his jaw unnoticeably before replying. "How, exactly, would I show you this?"  
  
"Two things. I want the names of those who helped you perform the Refici Ego Ipse curse."  
  
Thus removing my ability to undo it quickly.  
  
"As well, you will need to agree to being questioned under Veritaserum. This would only be in my presence and that of Severus Snape, because neither of us want to involve the Ministry, as it is."  
  
Tom frowned. "In return?"  
  
"I will help you create a guise under which you may reenroll in Hogwarts safely. I assume you would prefer one in which you can claim pure- blood?" He didn't wait for an answer. "A rather reclusive old family I know would be willing to allow you to use their name, I suspect. If for some reason you are unable to acquire enough money to-"  
  
Tom shook his head. "I can get the money." The last thing he had done before leaving for Hogwarts was been given the key to a private, and well- filled, Gringotts bank vault.  
  
"Well then. You'll be able to start over. The choice in how you do so is yours, as it should be, but you will not be without allies."  
  
Tom went silent then and remained so for nearly five minutes, taking into account everything he had been told and what information he was still lacking.  
  
When he spoke again his voice was quiet and clear, not a hint of his usual arrogance or charm. "We will agree on what questions may be asked under the Veritaserum. Any violation of those will void this deal. After which, we will create an identity, as you suggest. If it is to both our liking, I will give you the names of those who helped me and a way in which to catch them without incriminating either of us. Does this work for you?"  
  
Headmaster Dumbledore didn't need to consider the terms for nearly as long, in fact, he agreed immediately. "Now, I believe Severus has returned yesterday and he should have some Veritaserum in stock. Let's go find him, shall we?"  
  
Tom followed the jovial man out of his outside putting aside a nagging sense of suspicion for the moment. He might not like Albus Dumbledore, but the man had never broken his word to his knowledge. Sometimes you just had to trust. He hated those times. 


End file.
